Dark, Yet Lovely
by sbgrrl
Summary: S4, AU by default. Set prior to After School Special and Criss Angel... Dean thinks something is killing people in a small Iowa town and surrounding areas, and his need for redemption brings he and an unenthusiastic Sam to the hunt.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I hesitate to post this because 1) it's already been Kripked and 2) it's already been Kripked. In my defense, I started this a WHILE time ago and I'm a spoilerphobe so I had no idea of the impending Kripke. So, long story short, this is essentially an AU - set before Criss Angel is a Douchebag, and should be 6-7 parts. I hope you enjoy!_

_Many thanks to **LdyAnne** for the alpha and encouragement._

**Dark, Yet Lovely**

The snow drifted into frozen waves across empty fields, patches of dark poking through in places as if the soil refused to yield to the clean white. Everything around them was naked and cold and lifeless. Iowa felt desolate to Sam Winchester, barrenness stretching far ahead and lingering for miles behind as he and Dean drove toward Centerville. It was a state he doubted he'd ever voluntarily visit, and didn't know why anyone would choose to remain there if they didn't have to. Between the five or six major population centers, most of them small themselves, there was a whole lot of nothing. Sam felt himself starting to ache with the nothing, even as numb as he'd become.

The distance between him and Dean felt so much wider than the span of the Impala's bench seat. Telling the truth about everything was supposed to bring them closer to understanding. Sam had even hoped it would help him feel like he had his brother back. He wanted their version of normal back. All it did was increase his worry. Before, it had hurt to see Dean because he didn't know what was going on in his brother's head. Now when he looked at Dean, all Sam could see was his brother stretched on a rack, with Alastair stripping away his flesh. All Sam saw was his brother throwing himself in the bottle or the hunt to avoid feeling. Possibly to avoid accomplishing anything worthwhile.

He was pretty sure he didn't want to know what Dean saw in him when he looked back, if he saw anything beyond his own inner turmoil. Sam couldn't blame his brother for being trapped in the grips of his own pain. He couldn't bear thinking about Dean hurting like that, but at the same time it all made him feel more hollowed out. It didn't seem like it should be possible for Sam to be as lost with Dean at his side as he'd been without. It was some sort of cosmic joke for him to be so alone when he wasn't. The god he'd thought he loved was turning out to be as cold as the bleak Iowa cornfields, cruel and lurking. His brother had been returned, but broken, and they were stuck in a loop of inaction.

"Are we going to find a motel this time?"

"It's like thirty below," Dean said, voice gruffer now than it ever had been before, like his throat had been seared and scarred. It was life. It was pain. "Of course we are."

Dean always summed up winter in the Midwest as thirty below, and summer in the South automatically meant one hundred fifty in the shade. It wasn't that cold out, but even if it were the question wasn't that far off base. Sam couldn't remember the last time the backseat hadn't doubled as his bed, or Dean hadn't spent the night awake in an attempt to hunt himself into redemption. If anyone knew that saving others to clear something ugly within wouldn't work, it was Sam. No good intentions would purify the blood pumping through his veins. No number of rescues would wipe clean the number of souls Dean tortured in Hell.

Neither of them could stop trying.

"I was just checking. We haven't exactly been ritzing it up lately," Sam said, sounding defensive and hating it. He was so _fucking_ tired. "I figured we'd ride in, kick some supernatural ass, and ride out."

He hadn't thought that. They didn't even know what they were dealing with yet. So far there had been four deaths that wouldn't seem suspicious to most people. Most of them were spaced far enough apart, and the causes seemed natural. Except for the fact all the victims had been male, mid-thirties or younger. What he'd thought was that they'd camp on the edges of town, sleep in the car.

"You're funny, Sam," Dean said. "I thought you'd be excited to roll up your sleeves and hit the research."

"It'll be a barrel of laughs. I can't wait."

"Since when did you start hating research?"

"Since you di…" Sam reconsidered his response, scrunching his eyebrows together. "I guess I tend to lean more toward action these days, that's all."

His brother scowled and pointedly kept his eyes on the road. Sam had effectively killed what was passing as conversation, leaving the space between them lonely and more arctic than ever. His mind wandered to the only safe subject – the upcoming hunt. The thing was, Sam wasn't convinced there _was_ a hunt in Centerville, and even if there was, he wasn't convinced they should be dealing with it. Lilith was still out there. It was Dean who insisted they needed to check it out.

Six months ago, John Case went for a midnight swim and ended up dead in the Lower City Reservoir outside town. A year ago, Rick Wanakta from nearby Mystic went cross-country skiing around Rathbun Lake and never returned. In November, Matt Keener's car stalled and in going for help on foot he somehow knocked himself unconscious and fell into a snowdrift on the road between Centerville and Sunshine. The latest, Warren Warner, had fallen asleep last week in his truck after an apparently long night of drinking and froze to death. The frequency of occurrences was increasing.

It was really the first death that had half-raised red flags for Dean. With a little digging, Sam had pinpointed the string of passive deaths had begun two years ago when Vince Watkins had committed suicide by starvation three months after his wife and baby died in childbirth. The motive was understandable, but the method was strange. There were much quicker ways to do it. Sam thought about the number of liquor bottles he'd made it to the bottom of in the months after Dean died. Suddenly, he was less convinced Watkins hadn't just given up and decided he had something to atone for which would justify such a horribly slow and painful way to die.

The man couldn't have been responsible for his wife's death, the loss of a baby. Not the way Sam was responsible for Dean dying, for Dean being tortured, for Dean _torturing_. A lump formed in his throat, misery trying to claw its way out of his gut. He choked it down, gazing out at the dirty snow. It wasn't rational. Sam even knew somewhere deep down that it wasn't his burden alone to bear. Just like he wasn't to blame for some demon infecting him with evil when he was a baby, or how the power that evil gave him was like a drug and a tantalizing promise of a future free from hunting.

But all of it was his fault just the same.

Lost in his own thoughts, Sam barely registered it when they entered town limits. The atmosphere tinged blue as dusk settled around them. With any luck, they'd run into a few locals to pump for information if they grabbed something to eat, but he assumed most of the night would be spent researching and pretending he didn't think they should instead be working with Bobby to figure out which seal Lilith could go after next. Or simply track her down, so they could end this once and for all. Eventually, he wasn't going to be able to pretend anymore.

Without much verbal communication, they managed to find a motel, unload their stuff and drive outside of town to the Spur, which served food that met their low standards. It was always good to kill two birds with one stone; Dean might be focusing more on hunting now, but he still tossed back more alcohol than a normal person. Sam wasn't exactly a lightweight anymore himself, and for some reason he felt like getting drunk. Maybe drunk enough to puke out the emptiness inside him, so he could expel it out of his system before the actual hunt began. No one ever refused to answer even the most ridiculous questions from a drunken man, after all, and Warren Warner happened to have been a patron of Spur the night he died. There should be plenty of people who might have insight.

He placed his food order, snagged a beer and made his way through the dimly lit room to a booth in the bar section. Dean stayed at the bar, chatting up the bartender. Sam knew he should try to mingle instead of nursing his drink, but he couldn't seem to care enough to actually do it. This had always been more Dean's thing. Just because Sam was friendlier with alcohol these days didn't mean he was social about it.

"Here are your onion rings," a husky-voiced waitress said, sliding a red plastic basket piled high with deep-fried rings between himself and the beer.

"I didn't order these," Sam said, stomach turning at the thought. There wasn't room for those in his system. He was all full up on empty. "There must be some mistake."

"No mistake, hon. They're definitely for your table. Maybe someone here likes you." The waitress shrugged at him, thumping a bottle of ketchup down. "It must be your lucky night."

Sam scanned the crowded bar area for a possible candidate, finding only flannel-wearing townies, most of whom were wearing greasy trucker hats. Well, that was unnerving. He gave the waitress a weak smile, picking up his pint glass in a mock-toast gesture.

"That's me: Luckiest guy on the planet." He took a long drink.

"Hey, free food's free food," the waitress said, following it up with a throaty chuckle that reminded him of Ellen Harvelle. "You could do worse."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Someone could have ordered you the cheese balls." She waggled her eyebrows, saying as she left, "Think what kind of person that would be."

Despite himself, Sam laughed. He wasn't quite sure he understood what she meant, but conceded the point as a fair one. It was more than likely that Dean had ordered the rings and had them sent over for his own eventual consumption. Or it was his brother's unsubtle reminder for him to eat, not that he needed a reminder. Muscle wasn't put on by starvation, though bar food wouldn't be his first choice. He poured a mound of ketchup on the edge of the basket, mindlessly picking up a ring and munching on it.

He'd finished half the basket before his meal came, and Dean with it.

"Hey, onion rings. I got dibs on the rest," Dean said, sliding into the other side of the booth. He shoved three of them, whole, into his mouth. "Mmm, good."

"Augustus, sweetheart, save some room for later," Sam muttered with a fake German accent and a real grimace.

"Cute." Dean was undaunted by the remark, picking up his burger and taking an enormous bite. "That's cute, Sam."

Food was one of the few things his brother still enjoyed without reservation, so as gross as it was to watch Dean talk with his mouth full, Sam was also grateful. It was all about the little things these days, and all he could do was cling to them to make sure they didn't disappear. Sometimes it felt like it didn't matter how tightly he clung. Everything good would go away in the end, and they would spend forever fighting an unwinnable war. He picked up his own burger with a fraction of the anticipation Dean showed, eating because he had to.

"So the bartender said Warren was a regular here. Had lots of friends," Dean said. "Never drank so much he'd pass out cold."

"Except for the night he died in the parking lot," Sam said. "I wonder where his friends were then."

"They probably thought he was fine." Dean shoved two fries and an onion ring in his mouth. "And anyway, you know better than anyone that sometimes shit happens right in front of us and there's nothing we can do about it."

Sam's stomach turned. Yes, he did know that. He pushed the basket of half-eaten food away, toying instead with a napkin. He shredded it into small pieces. He didn't much like where Dean was going with that, getting the feeling his brother was talking to him more than about Warren Warner's friends. As if on cue, he replayed Dean getting shredded into small pieces right in front of him, much like he'd done to the napkin. He couldn't stay in that mental place. Sam drained the last of his beer and slid to the edge of the booth.

"I'm gonna get another. You want?"

Dean narrowed his eyes, assessing for a moment. "Yeah. Sure."

"I'll be right back."

Sam made his way to the back of the room, heading for the bathroom first. Cold water on his face would sober him up before he drank himself into a stupor. Just another fun-filled Winchester night. He bumped into a dark-haired woman coming out of the ladies room, reaching for her elbow as she stumbled back.

"Excuse me," he said.

"It's okay," the woman said, giving him a bright smile. Her striking, dark eyes sparkled. "You can bump into me anytime."

A familiar flush of heat ran through him. Sam tightened his grasp on the woman's arm. She didn't pull away.

&-&-&


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Eep, I thought I was almost done with this story (honestly thought I was writing the last chapter), but it's going to go a little longer than I thought. Essentially, these chapters will all be relatively short and I'm sorry about that. I usually like to give a few more words, but I don't want to post them all before I know for certain when I'm ending it. I. Can't. Take. The. Pressure. LOL._

**Dark, Yet Lovely  
Chapter Two**

Rolling out of bed, Dean staggered to the window and peeked out. The sun was bright and blinding. He squinted against it for a second, then peeled the drapes back to let in the light. Mornings sucked, but at least he didn't get hangovers anymore. He supposed that should be some kind of warning sign, but he chose to look at it as a blessing instead. It wasn't like blessings had ever been common in his life, so any little thing shouldn't be taken for granted, even if that blessing meant he was probably a functioning alcoholic on the best of days. That didn't mean he didn't feel the effects of a night hitting the bottle, just that he was able to top it off with a morning bracer which gave him enough of a buzz he could survive the day with Hell in his head.

They didn't get much of anything done last night. After Sam had come back with their second round, he had been more distant than usual and that was saying something. A different Dean might have pushed and cajoled his brother, teasing to get _some_ kind of reaction out of him. This Dean simply didn't have it in him. As long as Sam wasn't off cavorting with demons, he could be as wet a blanket as he wanted. It was no skin off Dean's teeth.

He squinted at Sam's neatly made bed, not surprised his brother had gotten up first since he always did these days. If Sam had even come home. Dean didn't have the most solid of memories of the previous night. The bathroom was empty, none of the towels used. A brief spike of concern shot through him, but then he shook it loose. He had a vague recollection of Sam saying something about hooking up and wandering away around midnight. There hadn't been any Ruby sightings (Dean would remember seeing her), so he was fairly sure Sam was off having a good time with a non-possessed, living person.

As far as Dean was concerned, it was a step in the normal direction. Normal for them, anyway. Sure, it was usually him seeking release in mindless sex, but he had no problem with Sam taking that role for awhile. After Anna, Dean hadn't felt much like casual sex. Plus this way, with Sam out de-stressing, he could chase away his nightmares with whiskey without having to hide it for a change. He pulled out his flask and took several long swallows, inadequate balm for his tortured soul. He started a pot of coffee before hopping into the shower.

Sam still wasn't back when he finished, so Dean grabbed the laptop and a fresh cup of crappy coffee. He started going over what his brother had already pulled up. He wasn't even sure what it was that made him think there was something worthwhile to hunt in Centerville, and he knew for a fact Sam was humoring him at this point. His gut told him he wasn't wrong, though. He scoured the news articles on each of the deaths, looking for common links Sam might have missed.

Something the bartender at Spur, Jack, had told him about Warren Warner stuck with him when most of the night was a blur. Jack claimed that Warner had started being a serious downer in the days before his untimely demise, depressed and more inclined to overdrinking. In hindsight, Jack said, he might have done a better job cutting the guy off before he got too drunk to start his damned car in subzero temperatures. It was a guilt Dean didn't even try to assuage. He didn't have the right to tell anyone they weren't doing enough to save someone from a horrible fate, since all he could do at this point was pretend Sam didn't scare the shit out of him sometimes. Eventually, he wasn't going to be able to pretend anymore.

With the first victim being so miserable he stopped eating, that made two with some seriously toxic levels of seasonal affective disorder. It wasn't too uncommon for people to feel out of sorts in the wintertime, but it also wasn't that usual for people to die because of it, directly or indirectly. Everything was always better in the spring, or whatever. He couldn't find anything about the other three vics being depressed, but Dean would bet hard money that interviewing family and friends would reveal they hadn't been buckets of sunshine toward the end. It was enough of a tie to justify the hunt.

Jotting down names and addresses, he decided the best course of action was to start with the most recent deaths. Dean wasn't sure it was necessary to confirm that all five of the guys had experienced sudden-onset depression just before they died. It was a reasonable assumption at this point, and having one more follow pattern would be enough for him. He called all the Keeners in the phone book, finally getting the widow. It wasn't his favorite cover, but given the guy had died months ago the best bet was life insurance rep. He'd talk to her later about the ins and outs of her husband's death benefit. He grimaced. That wouldn't be fun.

He sat up at the sound of keys rattling, his back popping in several places. He glanced at the clock, surprised he'd spent an hour hunched at the computer. It was almost noon. His coffee was cold, practically congealing. Dean stood, dumping the remains of the beverage down the drain as Sam walked in. Dean opened his mouth to give his brother a hard time about the walk of shame, but Sam looked so tired he changed his mind.

"Well, look who's finally rolling in," Dean said instead. "You must've had some night. She worth it?"

"She, hmm?" Sam asked, blinking slowly. "Oh, yeah. She. Of course. Great."

It looked to Dean like Sam was struggling to remember, which was weird to say the least. Unless the sex had been mind-blowingly great, in the literal sense. Truthfully, Sam looked like the good time he'd been having had been having him instead. And not in a completely happyhappyfuntime way. Not only was that slightly worrying, but Sam didn't usually indulge in his attempts at male bonding. Even Sam Version 2.0 probably would have scowled at him for treating sex like it deserved a scorecard. It sobered Dean up, the pleasant buzz from his morning drink disappearing.

"Hey, you all right?"

"I'm okay. Just wiped, man." Sam smiled at him, wiping some of the dog-tiredness from his face. "A shower, some coffee and I'll be good to go."

"Well, you can't count this crap as coffee. While you shower, I'll go get us something better," Dean said, brushing aside his worry. Sam was a big boy. Sam had not been out doing something he shouldn't. He'd promised not to. "You eat breakfast yet?"

Sam puzzled the question for a second. He shook his head slowly as he rooted through his duffel for the least objectionable jeans and T-shirt.

"No, but I'm not really hungry."

"I am." Dean tugged on his jacket. "And if I eat, you eat."

"Okay, Dean," Sam said. "I'll eat."

"Breakfast or lunch?"

"Whatever you want."

Dean watched Sam disappear into the bathroom, the niggle of concern returning. He knew Sam hadn't wanted to investigate the deaths in Centerville and the surrounding areas. He knew the kid held his tongue about the fervor in which Dean was throwing himself into the hunt these days. Maybe he could slow it down a little. If not for his sake, then Sam's. Besides, he already knew no amount of saving lives would save his soul. He was beyond redemption and he knew it, but Sam wasn't. Not yet. Dean wouldn't let his brother fall as hard as he had.

The cold Iowa air shocked him back to the here and now. He made the food run simple, grabbing a few doughnuts and a muffin along with two gigantic cups of coffee from a small café a block away from the motel. Dean hurried back to the room, and found Sam sitting on his bed with his socks in his hands and not on his feet, staring at the wall. His brother didn't bat an eyelash at his approach, until Dean waved the bag of doughnuts under his nose. Then all he did was jerk slightly and look up. Dean frowned at the slow reflexes.

"That was fast," Sam said numbly.

"Are you sure you're okay, man?" Dean tossed the doughnut bag on the bed, handed Sam his coffee and slid his jacket off in one fluid motion. "We've got people to talk to in about twenty minutes, and they're not going to respond well to your space cadet routine."

"I'm fine." Sam snapped out of his daze. He sat up straighter, setting the coffee down while he tugged on his socks. "You find out anything else last night?"

"Not much, but I think I've got a place to start. At least two of our guys went from Ned Flanders to Lane Meyer in a matter of weeks." Dean dug through the doughnuts, fishing out a cherry Danish. He handed the rest of them to Sam. "According to the bartender at the Spur, it was only a couple days for the last guy."

"So you think something might have affected all of these guys, and whatever it is, it's speeding up the delay between attacks," Sam said, picking up his coffee. He smelled it before he drank, and seemed to perk up. He dug out the lone muffin and tore the top off. "I suppose depression could be a symptom of something bigger. But what could do that?"

"A prelude to death. Yeah, that's what I was thinking." Dean took a bite of the Danish, talking with his mouth full, "I'd be willing to bet the other three guys suddenly went all emo just before they died. I called one of the families. Keener's widow is expecting us in a few minutes."

"Any ideas on what could do that?" Sam asked, yawning as he tossed the rest of his muffin back into the bag, scrunching it closed. He took another swallow of coffee. "If this is all more than a coincidence."

"My gut's telling me this isn't natural, Sam. The first guy, yeah, he had reason to be depressed. But the rest of them? I'm just not buying it."

"You're probably right." Sam moved to the window, looking out into the vast white. In natural lighting, he seemed pale. "One's easy to write off, two's a pretty big coincidence, and more than that can't be a good thing. Maybe we should split up, though, handle more than one at a time."

"I've already got an appointment with Matt Keener's widow," Dean said. He had the strongest feeling he didn't want to leave Sam alone. He had the strongest feeling this interview was going to make him want to find a bottle to crawl into, and he couldn't do that either. That would be leaving Sam alone. "I could really use your unfailing empathy on this one."

"Okay," Sam said, offering no argument, but he looked annoyed and pained for just a second. "That's fine, too. We don't have any idea when the next attack will be, but if this is something supernatural it should be, what, another month or two out unless it's really speeding things up."

If it wasn't currently on the prowl for a new victim, that begged the question of how they were going to track it and kill it. He had some idea of what they might be dealing with already, but nothing specific enough to go after with guns blazing. It could be corporeal or incorporeal, but the choice of victim meant it was probably female. These days he didn't have much patience for slow hunts. Sam had been right about that – lately they had been swooping in, saving the day and hitting the ground running. No wonder Sam looked beat. And, Dean admitted, he wasn't well-rested himself. He doubted he ever would be again. Not with what was playing in his head nonstop.

"I was thinking we could be dealing with some kind of psi-vamp." Dean tugged on his jacket, heading for the door. "There are about a dozen varieties of those suckers. No pun."

Sam rolled his eyes but nodded as he retrieved his own jacket. "That makes sense. A regular vampire doesn't string out a killing, or if it does, it kidnaps a person flat-out. No witnesses to worry as their friend wastes away to nothing."

"If the bartender noticed his customer's change of personality, you can bet people closer to the vics had to see something." Dean pulled the door open, standing to the side to let Sam head into the brisk cold first. "And somewhere in that worry maybe someone knows more than they even know they know."

"Yeah, like what we're hunting," Sam said, climbing into the car. "If we're lucky."

&-&-&


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews and alerts! I hope to have this up and done by the time new eps start back up again in the States (12 March). _

**Dark, Yet Lovely  
Chapter Three**

As far as Sam could tell he and Dean weren't having any luck, which was more of a disappointment than a surprise. It wasn't like they had ever been the luckiest sons of bitches on the planet, a fact that didn't look to be changing anytime soon. There was nothing but blood and destruction ahead of them, as far as the metaphorical eye could see. Sam was exhausted by all of it, tired of not doing anything except let it exhaust him. Rather, if he were honest what truly exhausted him was Dean's insistence they stick themselves in an endless bout of pointless hunts rather than attempting to end the bloodshed. Pretending to care was hard work, and pretending it didn't sometimes scare the shit out of him that he _had_ to pretend to care was even harder.

Sam blinked, keeping his eyes shut for longer than usual. They felt gritty and hot and he wanted to keep them closed forever. But he couldn't do that. There was never time for rest. When he opened his eyes again, Marjorie Keener had stopped saying whatever it was she had been telling them. She was slightly out of focus but he could still see she was obviously staring at him with concern.

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked, reaching for his forearm and then retracting her hand before touching him.

This was all backwards. He was the one who was supposed to be looking at her like that, and he didn't know what to say to her. Sam wasn't the one who'd lost someone a few short months ago. Except he was. He'd simply forgotten how to feel anymore. He glanced over at Dean, reminding himself that he wasn't here alone anymore even if he still felt it most of the time. Most of the time it felt like this Dean wasn't the same person. But Sam was starting to think that sense of aloneness had more to do with him than Dean. He didn't know how to find himself amid the confusion his life had become. When Dean looked back, Sam averted his face quickly, as if he was guilty of something more terrible than being tired. He might be. After all, he wasn't the same person anymore, either. He hadn't been for a long time.

"I'm sorry, I'm a little tired today," Sam said with a well-practiced, soft smile.

"I guess it's just that you remind me of Matt somehow," Marjorie said to Sam, returning his smile with a sad one of her own. "I want to make sure you're okay."

"We're on the road a lot," Dean added for unnecessary clarification when Sam sat there awkwardly. "We just rolled into town from the corporate offices this morning."

"You said your husband wasn't even supposed to be out that night?" Sam asked, getting things back on track. He lifted his cup of tea, trying not to grimace at the taste. Tea wasn't his cup of … tea.

"It was an early cold snap, you know? No one's ever quite ready for winter, no matter how many they've lived through. No one wants to be out in it when the cold first starts, but Matt was and I don't even know why." Marjorie's voice trembled, rising in pitch as she spoke as she struggled to contain tears. "I've been trying for months to understand why he pulled over and left his car without a jacket on. He had his cell."

That was new. Reports had all made it seem like Keener had gotten his car stuck in a snow bank. Marjorie was right to be confused and heartbroken about something that was so senseless. Any doubts Sam might have been holding onto disappeared. He set his teacup and saucer down on the coffee table, this time stepping into the right role for the scene. It actually felt good for the first time in a long time. Like he was finally starting to remember the who in the why they lived this life went beyond him and Dean. The battles he wanted to wage were bigger in scope, but that didn't mean the smaller ones should always be sacrificed. He had to remember that no matter how difficult it was. He handed Marjorie a tissue.

"There was nothing wrong with the vehicle?" Dean asked. "Or his phone?"

"No." Marjorie sniffled, crumpling the tissue and lifting it to her nose to dab. "Nothing. Afterward the car sat in the garage for two weeks before I finally sold the damn thing. I couldn't take seeing it anymore, like it was the car's fault my husband died on the side of the road. Every time I went out there, it sat there taunting me."

Sam understood that kind of illogic. A now-small part of him could relate to what Marjorie was feeling right this very second. He looked sideways at Dean again.

"It wasn't anybody's fault," Sam said, mentally cringing at the platitude. Never was there a phrase rendered so useless by overuse. "Mrs. Keener, had your husband been acting unusual in any way before he died?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was he depressed at all?" Dean asked. "Did he experience loss of appetite, maybe?"

Marjorie considered for a moment, tilting her head to the side. "Matt was never a big talker, but now that you mention it, he did get even quieter a few days before it happened."

"Was he distracted by something?" Dean looked at Sam for some reason. "Distant? Withdrawn, maybe?"

"Yes." She nodded. Her eyes were still teary, but a spark of anger was there now as well. "But he wasn't … he wouldn't have done this on purpose."

"We're not trying to imply otherwise. We have to ask these questions, ma'am," Sam said. "You can't think of any good reason for him to be on the road that night?"

"Oh, you're not going to claim what the sheriff's department did, about Matt meeting someone out there, are you? A _woman_. Matt would never do that, either. We were trying to start a family."

Matt Keener would meet up with a woman if he were under some kind of supernatural influence, Sam thought. Their luck might be changing. He hadn't anticipated learning anything from Mrs. Keener, but she'd just plopped something huge right in their laps.

"Can you tell us why the sheriff might have thought that?" Sam asked.

"They told me there was another set of footprints out there, smaller than Matt's," Marjorie said. "But I won't believe it. It doesn't make sense. If he were cheating on me, why would he meet her out in the middle of nowhere when it was below zero out? Have you ever heard of such a thing? It's ridiculous."

"I'm sure you're right, ma'am. In any case, it's not our place to say," Dean said, standing. "It sounds like this was an unfortunate accident. We should be able to process the benefit without delay."

"Thank you again for speaking with us," Sam said, following Dean's lead and standing. "We know this wasn't easy to talk about."

Marjorie nodded, wadding her tissue into a small ball and wrapping her fingers around it. She glanced away from them, toward empty spaces on the wall where there were pale outlines as evidence of pictures that once hung. The whole house looked as though it had been stripped, clearing out memories of happy times which were now too painful. Sam thought the car wasn't the only thing Mrs. Keener had gotten rid of in her attempts to banish sorrow. He wondered what the house had looked liked when her husband had been around. Not that it mattered. None of this mattered.

He and Dean beat a hasty retreat, Marjorie trailing behind them to the door with a confused expression on her face. The problem with these interviews was always making a graceful exit after forcing someone to go through emotional trauma, usually with the weakest of cover stories. As he put his still-wet shoes back on Sam caught Mrs. Keener looking at him like he was her husband's ghost. He was glad that in this case what they were hunting wasn't actually her husband's ghost, but her scrutiny was still discomfiting. None of the victims looked anything alike, which meant her comparison was something deeper. More personal. He brushed his unease aside like he did everything lately, because he had to.

"That was more interesting than I thought it was going to be," Dean said as they slid into the car. "I'd say we've got a new angle on this, at least."

"If it left footprints, it's corporeal. No digging into frozen ground required," Sam said. "And the sheriff's department might have photos."

"Either we pay a visit now or break in later."

Sam turned his gaze to the snow-crusted curb and salty cars parked along them. The thought of dealing directly with law enforcement wasn't appealing to him, but then it never was. It was always easier to avoid interaction when they could. Unless they absolutely had to, he didn't think they even had to interview any other of the victims' families.

"I vote for break in later."

Sam assumed Dean's silence meant agreement. He slouched and closed his eyes, keeping his face turned to the window and the bright sunlight that made it seem like it was warm outside. The growl of the car's engine and the loud thrum of tires on pavement were the only sounds. Lately, Dean hadn't been listening to music, one more tally on the everything-was-different-now side of the scorecard. Sam was lulled to near-sleep. As much as he was one for action in the grand scheme, it felt good to relax for a few minutes. It was literally only a few minutes. He roused when the car stopped, pulling into a cool patch of shade. He sat up.

"What?" he asked, then blinked. "We're at the motel."

"Dude, your synapses are firing slowly today. I don't know where else we'd be," Dean said. "And you're dead on your feet. No more late nights for you, at least not until you're a grownup."

Dean was teasing and Sam knew that, but anger stabbed through him hot and quick anyway. Even now, after everything, Dean would never think of him as capable or strong. His brother was very wrong about that. He glared at Dean, disguising his anger with practiced exasperation for the gibe. In return, he only saw naked, weary concern on Dean's face. His own anger seemed irrational all of a sudden. It faded into the background, where it always seemed to simmer these days, hiding behind the empty feeling in his guts.

"I'll let you know when I become a card-carrying adult." The door creaked as Sam opened it. He rolled himself out. Dean wasn't turning the car off or following him out. He leaned down. "You coming?"

"Nah, I thought I'd poke around a little more. Go take a nap, Sam."

"Dean."

"Don't tell me you're fine. Some help you were with Mrs. Keener. You were a zombie back there. I don't have the energy to cover for you, either, so go take a nap. An hour or two would do you good. I'll be back later."

Dean was backing up before Sam had the chance to slam the door shut. Sam ran a hand through his hair. After months of feeling like his brother wasn't even aware of him, he was a bit resentful Dean chose now to pay attention. Dean was manifesting his inner mother hen. It was all or nothing, apparently. He just wished the all part of that equation didn't make him feel babied. In the middle of his resentment du jour, he yawned so widely his jaw popped. Okay, so Dean was right. Sam wasn't doing anyone any good so tired. He let himself into their room, mechanically shedding his jacket and kicking off his boots.

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, lost in a dreamless dark.

Sam tossed and turned, edging toward consciousness what felt like only minutes after he'd dropped off. He heard Dean rustling around the room softly. _Just a little while longer,_ he thought, groaning, flipping over onto his belly and burying his head under a pillow. There had been enough hunts of scrunching into the backseat on cold, dank nights that it seemed the lumpy, smelly, too-short mattress was the most comfortable thing he'd ever slept on. Deprivation always made the crappiest of things seem amazing.

As if his brother had heard his thoughts, the noises grew quieter. Maybe he'd grumbled out loud. Whatever. Sam sighed, burrowing deeper into the cocoon of rough sheets and pilly blankets. There was a warm stroke to his shoulder, lingering there with comforting pressure. He frowned at the odd touch. It felt good, though. Lassitude wrapped itself like arms around him, hugging and pulling him back to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Dark, Yet Lovely  
Chapter Three**

Dean hadn't actually intended on stopping by the sheriff's department after he'd dropped Sam at the motel, but found himself purchasing another suit (they didn't travel as well as flannel and jeans) and going anyway. He felt like he was pulling all the weight on cases lately, which worried him more than annoyed him. He had a need which he couldn't explain to move forward on this case as quickly as possible.

Maybe it was because he felt like he had to move quickly on _something_, and the big things were impossible.

He wasn't audacious enough to outright steal a file from a police lock-up, at least not in broad daylight. Maybe he would have a year ago, but not now. Dean wanted to reference the photo later and wanted Sam's voluntary or involuntary input on it, so a cell phone snapshot of a snapshot would have to do. The sheriff or his deputies hadn't lied about the additional set of footprints they'd found out by Matt Keener. He frowned at the picture, trying to ignore the body. The extraneous footprints were small, definitely womanish, but there was something off about the whole thing. He couldn't put his finger on it. He tipped the photo sideways and took another picture with the phone.

He had to wonder if there was a chance there was some inexplicable evidence in the other deaths. Glancing at his watch, Dean figured he had another half an hour here, if the lovely Rita was right about the sheriff's lunch plans. He'd work smarter, not harder. He was prepared but didn't want to push his luck, as it had been pretty phenomenal so far, by running into actual law enforcement now.

Locating the files for the other cases, he rooted through them quickly to see if anything jumped out at him. Nothing did immediately, but that didn't always mean there wasn't a pattern there. With limited time and not enough space on his cell to take pictures of every file, he quickly decided Sam was better at sifting through this kind of shit, which meant he had to get the files to his brother. It was about time for Sam to help him out a little anyway. So much for not stealing in broad daylight. He was a walking contradiction anyway. The files wouldn't be missed. He tucked them as inconspicuously into his suit coat as he could. Ducking his head out into the reception area, he ensured it was all clear before he stepped out.

"Get everything you need, Agent Waters?" Rita asked with a coy smile.

It was the suit. He frigging hated them, but for some reason women were even more all over him when he wore one. And, god, his job was _rough_ sometimes. Rita was a picture of Midwest wholesomeness. Nice curves, nice rack, cute freckles. She tilted her head at him, toying with her hair in a signal he knew well. Dean sauntered over to her desk, perching on the edge of it with a smile of his own. He could disarm just about anyone with a smile. He saw what little defenses she had crumbling, not that he'd actually do anything with her. Just the inkling he had that they were dealing with some kind of succubus was deterrent enough to know better. Still, it would be stupid not to admire the cleavage she was offering as a gift.

"Actually, I did. You've been a big help."

Rita beamed at him. Once he and Sam had found their supernatural femme fatale, he was so going to have to come back to express his gratitude the best way he knew how. He gave her another wink.

"I'm glad," she said, blushing. "I hope you'll let me know if there's anything else I can _do_ for you. Even if it's after hours."

"Oh, you can bet I'll be in touch," he said. Now wasn't the time to bust out his best Rico Suave moves, so Dean made a quick, graceful exit. It was better to leave them wanting.

All told, he'd spent nearly two hours on this. Sam should be rested by now. Dean navigated back to the motel, half expecting Sam to be up and at the computer. Opening the door, though, he discovered his brother still sawing logs. Normally he'd let the guy sleep, but he really was a bit tired of Sam acting like it was a chore to hunt the way they always had. He contemplated pouring water over Sam's head, but instead he put the case files on the table, took off his jacket and moved to the bed. He pushed on Sam's shoulder.

"Hey," he said. "I know you need your beauty sleep, but it's time to rise and shine, man. We got work to do."

Sam mumbled and settled himself deeper into the mound of sheets and blankets.

Okay, water it was. Dean filled a glass, pulled the pillow off his brother and dribbled a few or, y'know, many drops on Sam's forehead. It got a reaction, but not quite the one he'd expected. Sam was up in a flash and Dean found himself pressed against the far wall with his feet nearly off the ground, Sam's forearm at his throat.

"Whoa," he choked out. "Easy, Tiger, it's just me."

For a second, Sam's eyes were wild and Dean had a flash of déjà vu he did not like at all. But it passed, and Sam turned contrite, befuddled and let him go. Dean tried to remember Sam ever waking up ready for a fight _like that_ before, and couldn't.

"Sorry," Sam said breathlessly. "I'm sorry."

"Have a good nap?" Dean tried to shrug off the tension the only way he knew how, with a weak attempt at humor. "Sweet dreams?"

"I had to learn to be on my guard better while you were…" Sam ran a hand through his hair, heading for the bathroom. "Sometimes I forget I … you startled me."

Dean clenched his jaw and again pretended it didn't bother him that Sam was not acting like the Sam he knew. It'd pass and things would be just fine. He was counting on it. It was all he could do. He stared at the bathroom door until Sam came back out, a trail of water running down the side of his face, his hair dripping slightly. He looked better, more refreshed. Sam looked up, catching his eye. Dean looked away, like he was guilty of something.

"What time's it?" Sam mumbled, peering at his watch. "Damn, I slept longer than I meant to. You find out anything?"

"Maybe," Dean said, relieved to move on to safe topics. "I stopped by the sheriff's department and got my hands on the files for all five deaths."

"What's in them?"

"I don't know. I didn't have time to look at them, so I figured a snatch and grab was the way to go." Dean sat at the table, moving Keener's file to the top. He flipped to the photo. "Take a look at this, though."

Sam sat across from him, pulling the file until it was in front of him. He studied it for a minute, furrowing his eyebrows. "There's something wrong with this."

"That's what I thought, too. I haven't been able to figure out what."

"Huh." Sam turned the picture to one side and tilted his head the other, doing some of the same visual acrobatics Dean had tried. He put the picture down and tapped on it. "It looks like these prints here are going and not coming, but that doesn't make sense."

Dean leaned closer, eyeing the photos again from yet another perspective. It actually helped a little bit.

"It's like whomever or whatever was out there stood facing away from the body. Or is it just me?"

"It's not you." Sam chewed on his lip, bending over the photo. "Does it look like someone knelt here?"

Sam was right. There were two knee impressions very close to Keener's body, and the indents which would be for the toes looked wrong. Smaller. More like heel prints than anything. But that wasn't right. It couldn't be. It defied the laws of biology, and probably physics.

"So we're dealing with something female, with messed-up feet," Dean said. "It's hard to tell with a flat image, but it seems these here should be the tracks leading to the body, but they don't match up with the kneeling."

"The cops probably didn't even bother examining this stuff," Sam said. He grabbed the other files, leafing through them. "These could end up being a better source than family or friends."

While Sam poked around the files, Dean cracked open the laptop. He thought briefly about digging out their dad's old journal to scan the extensive monsterology contained within it. So much had changed. He wasn't even sure where it was anymore, and it seemed strange to him that it had only been a few years since Dad had died. Since Dad had gone to Hell for him. Sometimes Dean felt like an old man, like he was carrying the years he'd lived in Hell on his shoulders. Not like. He did carry them. They'd become entities in and of themselves. Sometimes Dean wondered if his father's sacrifice had been worth it and doubted it was. He was conscious of Sam in the room with him and wondered for the thousandth guilty time if his own sacrifice had been worth it.

Sam standing up and walking to the fridge pulled Dean out of his own miserable headspace. Sam, who was working on this case though Dean didn't think his heart was in it. Because _he_ wanted this hunt. Dean shoved his conflicted feelings aside, uncomfortable with those thoughts alone. He focused on the computer, starting with a broad search on succubi.

Dean scowled at the extensive number on their potential suspects list. It didn't surprise him that so many female supernatural things were slanted toward being highly sexualized, often vampiric, or at least the evil ones. There was some unwritten rule about that somewhere, and it was a total cliché. Non supernatural women couldn't be put into two convenient categories. Whatever. All Dean cared about at the moment was that it made for more work.

"Beer?" Sam asked after a few minutes. An hour.

He kept staring at the succubi list for another second, half-ignoring Sam. The only one Dean could say with certainty wasn't their monster was the original succubus. Lilith. His mouth all of a sudden tasted like ashes and cotton candy and blood and fear. Beer would definitely be good, though not strong enough.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Are you seeing anything in the files?"

"No, man." Sam thunked a beer on the table, returning to his seat. He toyed with the corner of his bottle's label, flicking it with his thumb. "They're pretty standard. No suspected foul play, no reason to look for anything we'd need. I think we caught a break with Keener, both with his widow and the sheriff."

"I was afraid you'd say that." Dean drank half of his beer in one go. "I've got about a million possible suspects over here. A lot of the supernatural sisters have pretty much the same friggin' MO."

"What about the feet thing?"

"Have at it, Poindexter," Dean said. No reason to tell Sam he hadn't found anything because he'd been too busy brooding. "Let your geek light shine free."

Sam twitched, a bare lip curl and a flash of anger in his eyes. He didn't say anything, commandeering the laptop and staring at the screen instead. That was Sam these days. All business – hard edges and no nonsense and when had it all begun? Dean wasn't sure if it wasn't all in his head, jumbled up with everything else crammed in there. Not real, but all too real.

Dean finished the beer and got another, glad he'd thought ahead and stocked the fridge. He took several long swallows of his fresh beer before he rejoined Sam at the table. He thumbed through the police files. It was either that or watch Sam stare at the computer like Dean wasn't in the room. After a few minutes, he still didn't see anything worthwhile in them. He flicked a bottle cap, sending it skittering across the table, resulting in another annoyed glare from Sam. Nothing he could do about that. He had a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, identifiable as hunger not pain.

"Hey," he said. "If this is going to take a while…"

"Maybe we should go grab something to eat first," Sam said, filling in the blanks.

"You read my mind." Dean grinned. He was hungry and, at this very moment, bored out of his gourd. "This stuff won't go anywhere, and it's been a long time since breakfast."

"Yeah, I suppose I could eat."

Finally something they agreed on without hidden strings or half-truths. The victory was small, but Dean would take it, even if he knew the simple act of dinner was somehow no longer the same anymore either. He stood, shaking off the thoughts that wouldn't do any good. A quick bite and then they'd be back to hunting things, maybe saving people. The basics. The easy, redemptive things.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: Sadly, they're not mine. _

**Dark, Yet Lovely  
Chapter Five**

The second they walked into the family restaurant, Sam realized he wasn't just humoring Dean. He was actually hungry. For a change, their choice of eatery didn't smell like old grease and faint mustiness, which would have killed his appetite. Instead, there was the welcoming scent of baking bread and something sweet, probably the pies behind a lighted display case prominently placed right next to the cash register. His stomach growled, and Dean shot him a look that said I-told-you-so. He rolled his eyes. He'd never denied the need to eat. He just didn't have the same joie de vivre for it that Dean did, and he never had. Except that one time after he'd been resurrected.

Sam wasn't sure that counted.

Dean ogled the pies as the waitress-slash-hostess walked them by the case, a glimpse of the old Dean that Sam couldn't ignore or take for granted. It was one of the little things, he reminded himself, that he wanted to fight for as much as cling to and never let go. That was why he wanted to win this goddamned war the way Dean wanted to avoid it – all in the hope that the little things would make way for or even turn into the big things. Barely even thinking about it made him mentally weary. Sam stifled a yawn as he took off his jacket, tossing it into the booth. He collapsed into the seat awkwardly.

"My name's Beth. I'll give you a few minutes to look over the menu," the waitress said, "Can I start you off with something to drink?"

"Water's good for me," Sam said, already flipping the laminated menu open.

"Coffee, black," Dean said.

As Beth walked away, Sam considered calling her back. Coffee would be good. She was already too far away, and he couldn't be bothered to spend more time or energy on it. When she came back, he would let her know.

He felt a lingering sense of physical tiredness, despite the nap. It was like Sam had had a dream in which he was running, running, running and had awoken as exhausted as he'd been before. He couldn't remember dreaming anything at all, though, and chalked it up to being unaccustomed to sleeping in a bed. The sooner they got this case over with, the sooner he could get some real sleep. Provided, that was, Dean didn't already have another pointless hunt set up already.

He stifled another yawn, shook his head and rubbed his hands down the front of his thighs like he was nervous. Really, he'd do anything to keep himself awake. The air felt too warm in the restaurant, jacked up to compensate for the cold outside. It was heavy.

"So we're thinking a succubus with a serious foot condition," Dean said. "Did you have better luck narrowing it down than I did?"

"Yeah, actually. The feet thing helped a lot."

Beth came back with waters for both of them and a pot of coffee that looked and smelled like it had seen better hours. She flipped Dean's cup over and poured, taking Sam's cue when he tipped his own right-side up and tapped the ceramic lightly. She set the coffee pot down, the charred smell of it wafting over them. They ordered by rote. It wasn't like they had to study the menu or anything. The food was always the same, with random regional fare thrown in now and again.

Sam took a sip of his coffee, wincing. He took his coffee black these days, but that stuff would strip the paint off a vehicle. It was way too bitter to swallow. Sugar would give him an additional energy boost, too, in case they were going to handle this thing tonight. If they figured it out. He wished he'd brought the laptop. Even though he'd pinpointed the top suspects on the supernatural list, he was having a hard time remembering details for some reason. He yawned with his mouth closed, nostrils flaring.

"And, but, so, therefore?" Dean prompted when the waitress was out of earshot. "Tell me whatever you've got on the list is easy to eliminate."

Sam fiddled with the sugar dispenser, his fingers suddenly clumsy, spilling granules all over the table in a sweet, miniature imitation of a snowdrift. He brushed his hands on the napkin but couldn't seem to get the stickiness off. He ignored it, picking the sugar back up and dumping bunch of it back in the coffee. He took another sip. It hadn't improved much.

"I don't really remember off the top of my head," Sam said. "All I had the chance to do was skim."

"I suppose I'll let that slide. You've still got your geek cred for now."

"Because you did so much better the whole two minutes you tried."

"Hey, I'm not the walking encyclopedia here."

Sam huffed. Every once in a while Dean would pull out snark so old it had collected dust on the back shelf of his mind, his brother doing what Sam guessed was some ill-fitting attempt to make now the way it had been then. Sam knew it was impossible, and he knew Dean knew that was as well. They were living in the land of make believe. He was waiting for Dean to give him some kind of signal that it was time to ride the train out through the tunnel, back to reality that they could still fix if for a change they _tried_.

He couldn't put stock in fate being predetermined. To think that would leave him curled on the floor, mute and deaf and blind with the horror. It would leave him dead in the end, and Dean destroyed. Sam was finding more and more often lately that he was okay with the former and determined to prevent the latter. Even if it meant dark compromise, he wanted Dean to be whole again. Not the same Dean, but not a shell. Doing something was better than doing nothing. He looked over at his brother, who was still smiling about the encyclopedia reference. It just about broke Sam's heart.

"It can wait until we finish eating, right?" Sam asked. He gave a rapid, sort-of smile of his own. "Damnit, Jim. I'm a doctor, not a computer."

"Aw," Dean said. "You're adorable when you try to be funny."

The cease on case-talk meant they were left to regular conversation. For them, regular conversation was rare and hardly ever regular. Sam glanced around at the small crowd in the restaurant. Families laughing together. A couple two booths down. A lone, sad-looking woman who appeared to be waiting for someone. She seemed familiar. She looked up, right at Sam, giving him a small smile. Something cold like ice coiled through his gut. He picked up his coffee, fingers sticking to the cup when he put it down. He rubbed his thumb across his fingertips, still bothered by the sugary feel. He slid toward the edge of the booth.

"I'll be right back. And no, you can't eat my fries if the food comes."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dean said, lying through his teeth. Then he got serious. "You look like you need all the nourishment you can get, anyway. You're looking pasty again, Sam."

"Whatever."

Sam sauntered around the restaurant until he saw the restroom signs, the rooms tucked inconspicuously in the back corner. They were down a small corridor, children's booster seats stacked out of the regular foot traffic. The area nearest to the bathrooms wasn't seated, leaving it a small ghost town. He pushed the door open, squinting at the harsh fluorescent lighting and then at his image in the mirror. It might be the light, but Dean wasn't wrong. Sam looked as tired as he felt. The faucet squeaked when he turned on the tap to cold, leaning to splash water on his face.

Turning off the water, he leaned on the counter, his eyes closed for a second. The door opened with a swishing noise. Sam opened his eyes, straightened, and prepared to make room for whomever needed the facilities. His fingers felt cleaner. The dash of water helped revive him. Two birds, one stone. He pivoted to leave, taking a step back at discovering the person who'd entered still standing by the door, studying him with sad, recognizable hunger.

"Uhm," he said. "Do I …?"

She moved fast, leaping on him. Everything about her was familiar. Her glossy black hair. Her dark eyes. Feet, feet, her feet. Alarm coursed through him. The sharpness of her teeth skimming his collarbone made him forget as they nearly pierced his shoulder and neck. His head was a swirl of images, memories and the realities of now Sam couldn't understand. His reflection in the mirror. A dream he didn't know he'd had that wasn't a dream at all. His body was rubbery with sensations he didn't want but had to have so much. _Hot and cold and wantwantwant_. Warmth left his limbs as she slid from him, taking him by the hand. Gray shadowed the edges of his vision. His head was light, wrong, and a voice told him to sleep. He had no choice. Darkness swathed him, a lovely blanket he could not escape if he wanted to.

When Sam opened his eyes again, it was with panic and confusion. He flat on his back. His legs were wrapped in bedsheets, his body naked and sweaty but shivering. He saw a crack in the ceiling, trailing upward like the Nile toward the wall near his head. The sound of trickling water filled the air, as did the humid heat from a running shower and an open door. He swallowed, trying to sit up and failing. This was … he didn't know where he was, or where he'd been. His mouth was cottony, his head ached like he'd had too much to drink. All he wanted to do was sleep it off.

But that wasn't right. His brain started returning from sleep. Dinner. He and Dean had been eating dinner. Sam couldn't remember if he'd actually seen any food. His gut felt empty. All of his insides felt hollow. He heard a hum he wasn't sure was real or tinnitus, then realized it was his phone, somewhere in the room. In his jeans, which were crumpled on the floor. He reached for the pants, fumbling and almost falling from the bed. The buzzing stopped before he could grab the phone. Squinting, he saw there were ten unanswered messages. The clock revealed it was well into the night.

Dean. Dean. Dean would be freaking out. Dean had been trying to call him.

Sam didn't check the messages. It was too much energy. He finally sat up with his jeans draped over his lap. He dialed his brother, feeling shaky and weak. He rested his elbows on his knees, holding his head up with one hand. The carpet was blurry. Everything was blurry. He remembered skin and dizziness, feeling drained.

"_Sam, where the fuck are you_?" Dean picked up and bellowed into the phone before it had completed a second ring, sounding angry in a way that was a mask for fear.

"I don't know, Dean, I'm confused," Sam said, except no, he hadn't. Nothing had come out of his mouth but a strange croak. He coughed.

"_Sam? Sammy, hey, you answer me. Tell me where you are_."

Sam's throat was dry. He cleared it, a weak rasp, ready to try speaking again, needing to talk to his brother. Feminine, bare feet appeared on the carpet where he was struggling to focus, but they were pointing to the bathroom. When he looked up stupidly there was a woman staring at him, not the back of her head. That wasn't right. None of this was right.

"Dean," he said, slurring with exhaustion.

The thing that only looked like a woman took the phone from him as if he were an invalid, giving him a look that bordered between anger and compassion. The phone was in the air then. It smashed against the far wall, making Sam shake and jolt and _he needed help, Dean. Dean_. He wanted to get up but instead fell back toward the bed. She, it, caught him and held him with impossible strength. He gasped.

"You hunt," the thing said, eyes boring into him. Her sneer turned to softness. "You are weary. Hunter, I can help you."

"Please." Sam didn't know what he was asking for, not really. He was awash with longing and fear and fatigue. He wanted this all to be over. "Please."

"You're so like him, like the others, like my sweet. I can't resist." She smiled, beautiful and terrible, running a hand through his hair, wrapping her arms around him. Pressing close. "I want. I want."

Her breath was warm in his ear. She smelled of soap and, underneath that lingered dirt and decay. Sam twitched, wanting to fight but unable to do more than moan. It only served to make her move against him with more fervor, shedding the towel with a sibilant sigh. Her skin was warm, still damp, and his was cold, growing colder. No. He didn't want this. He had never chosen this, or never would have if he'd known.

"Please," he whispered again. "No."

"But I need this," she said, her hands twining in his hair. Her tongue was black, grotesque, as she licked her lips. "I need _you_."

Sam was filled with lethargy. He couldn't move. He wasn't sure he wanted to anymore. It had been too late for him the minute he had met this creature, that first night in the bar when he'd said yes to something he couldn't have understood. This was one of two clear thoughts in his head.

The other was _I'm sorry, Dean_.

&-&-&

_A/N: TBC, mwahahaha! You had to know something was bound to happen eventually, right?_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks again to those reading along! Here's hoping I can get this finished before I head out of town for a couple of days this week..._

**Dark, Yet Lovely  
Chapter Six**

Beth-the-waitress slid heaping plates of food across the tabletop with a smile and a fresh bottle of ketchup.

Of course, the first thing Dean did was nab some of Sam's fries. It was the principle of it – he wouldn't have done it if Sam hadn't told him not to. He didn't take as many as he'd like, though it would serve Sam right to come back to a plate empty of fries. Dean dug into his own meal with gusto. Truthfully, he'd been starting to feel a bit weak and distracted from hunger. In his opinion, it just wasn't natural to go more than three hours without eating. He could live without sleep, but not food.

He had nearly finished his sandwich, visions of cherry pie dancing in his head, when it finally sank in that Sam hadn't returned. The length of time he'd been eating alone wasn't that great – five, maybe ten minutes. Without the pull of conversation, Dean had wolfed the food faster than usual. But a guy washing his hands should have taken two minutes tops. Sam should have been back long ago, his own chicken sandwich eaten instead of congealing in an unappetizing wreckage of limp lettuce and tomato. Dean didn't know what it meant, but he knew it couldn't be good. He dropped that final bite of burger on the plate.

The last time Sam had wandered into a public bathroom and not come out, it was because Henricksen had come back from the grave to beat the shit out of him. This did little to hearten Dean that there was a reasonable explanation now. He walked to the restrooms fast, kicking the men's room door open and flicking his gaze over every square inch of space. Sam wasn't in there. Sam wasn't anywhere in the restaurant, which only reminded Dean of another bad experience when he'd been thinking of pie while his brother was already on his slow way to getting dead.

Beth was there, slapping the bill down just as Dean arrived back at the booth. She pointed to Sam's plate, "You want me to box up your friend's dinner? I assume he's not coming back."

"No, it's okay. Leave it," Dean said gruffly, leaning past her to grab his jacket. Shrugging it on, he skirted around her and grabbed Sam's from the other side of the booth. "You didn't happen to see where he went, did you?"

"Out the front door, mister." Beth gave him a knowing wink. "He was trailing right behind that dark-haired hot-to-trot little beauty like a puppy."

Oh _hell_ no. Dean felt like someone had reached inside him and pulled his guts out, a gruesome, well-remembered pain. His first thought, like always lately, was Ruby. But that couldn't be right. Dean refused to believe it, just as he had before. Sam would sneak out in the dead of night, if his behavior in the past concerning Ruby was anything to go by. He'd dance in the shadows as if daring Dean to do something about it. No, this was different. Maybe worse. Sam had simply walked out on him, and this time Dean couldn't say it was for a healthy booty call. God, it probably hadn't been last night. He'd sat around giving his brother virtual pats on the back for getting whammied by a succubus.

"Have you seen her before?"

His voice was hoarse. He shouldn't have insisted they leave the motel for food. He should have been more diligent with the research himself. He didn't even know what this thing was for sure, and it had Sam. Dean knew it.

"Is she a local?" he asked.

"Jealous, honey?" Beth asked, but sobered almost immediately when she gave Dean more than a sidelong glance. "She might have looked familiar, but only in that way some people have. No, I don't think I knew her."

"Thanks for dinner."

Dean folded a couple bills in Beth's palm, making for the door with long strides. He threw Sam's jacket on the passenger seat and slid in himself. He pulled out his cell while he started the engine, squealing out of the parking lot. Sam didn't pick up and Dean left some kind of message. He didn't know what he said exactly but the crux was most likely _answer the damned phone, where are you, pick up, pick up_.

He was a world-class idiot. As he drove, a flood of memories from the past day and a half came at him. _Sam_ being the one to score a one-night stand. Sam seeming dazed and confused the morning after. That had been t_his_ morning. God, it had moved fast. Sam had been more distant, too, than he had been of late. Sam looking exhausted after sleeping for hours. Jesus, even fifteen minutes ago Sam had stifled multiple yawns. Dean had seen it all along and he hadn't done a goddamned thing. He was sure his brother was out there getting dead. He searched the sidewalks, as if he were actually going to find Sam walking on them.

"Okay, Dean, think," he muttered.

The way he saw it, he only had two choices. He could drive around impotently, searching for his brother without the first clue how to fix this problem even if he were lucky enough to find Sam. Or he could go back to the motel and hope to God that Sam had gotten more research done than he'd made it seem; kill the thing before it killed Sam and hope like hell he could find his brother then. The choice between the two wasn't a difficult one.

He failed to get through to Sam twice more before he got back to the motel. Each time he hit Sam's voicemail was like proof of failure. He didn't feel like his only job was to protect as much anymore, but it was still there. It was still a part of him, but less defined. Dean had felt festering helplessness since returning topside, and now it exploded in an infected mass.

Sam had left all the pages he'd been working on open on the laptop, and they shone at Dean when he opened the laptop. His mind preoccupied with _where's Sam_, it took him a few minutes to figure out Sam's probable thought processes. Even without the worry, he would have had a time with it. Dean wasn't an idiot, but in some things Sam was clearly gifted.

The list had been culled to two. Dean skimmed, unable to devote his complete attention. In Dominican lore there was a creature called a _ciguapa_. Backwards feet, long dark hair, typically found in the mountains. Iowa was flat as a pancake, but geography wasn't enough to rule it out. Men lured into the forest for sex and death ala Black Widow. That wasn't right. None of the victims had been murdered bloody. Good thing, too. The only known way to kill a _ciguapa_ was apparently to track them at night during a full moon, with a black and white, six-toed dog. Sam would be dead by then. Sam was not dead yet.

Dean blinked, abandoning his search to call his brother again. Three times. It felt wrong to sit around reading while Sam was in trouble. He itched with nerves, a need to move that prickled across his skin. He needed a damned drink, but he couldn't let himself. It would slow him down.

"Damnit, Sam, I need you to pick up, man," Dean said into the phone again. His plea was as useless as he was. "Tell me I'm blowing this out of proportion or something."

He took a deep breath and plunged back into the research. The second supernatural creature Sam had pinpointed was a Hindi monster called a _churel_. Same basics as the _ciguapa_ with the physical appearance and backwards feet. Different MO. He was sure he had his prey. _Churels_ were unhappy ghosts of women who'd died while on the rag or in childbirth. Drank blood because of that fact, and primarily from men who reminded her of her boyfriend or husband. In fact, they usually started with their loved ones.

"Mrs. Keener," Dean muttered, as if bouncing ideas off the empty chair where Sam should be. He ran a hand through his hair. "Mrs. Keener said you reminded her of her husband, but the dude was 5'7" and bald. That's about as far from you as you can get."

That was something, though. Maybe she'd seen something deeper. Maybe she'd sensed Sam was already compromised while Dean remained oblivious. He stood up, legs restless. His brain tossed all of the information around, mixing it in with the stew of _where's Sam, do not be dead, Sam_ already there. Something else was there he should pick up on.

"You'd already know, wouldn't you? Smug," he said to the chair. Dean dialed Sam again, like an obsessive-compulsive.

Wait, wait. He scrolled back up the webpage to reread. _Churels_ were ghosts of women who died in childbirth. In childbirth. That was familiar. He hung up after hearing Sam's brief message again, abandoning that futile activity for the police files. He dug around in them until he found Vince Watkins'. Wife and child died during delivery, and then he offed himself months later. Death by depression and starvation. Dead wife's name was listed as Asha … short for Abhilasha, which sounded damned Indian to him.

"I gotcha."

All he had to do was find her burial plot, and then Sam would be okay. Sam had to be okay now, and in the end. Dean scanned for ways to end this bereaved, nasty ghost, again relying on hope that the sources online were even remotely accurate. He didn't have time to call Bobby for fact checking. Something inside him knew that, that well-honed hunter's intuition his father had told him to always trust. So he'd be doing as many on the huge list of supposed cures for a _churel_ as he could, none of them pleasant and most of them requiring he dig a grave in frozen ground. It would take hours.

And those were hours Sam would be in its clutches, Dean thought with a stab of doubt. He lost track of the number of times he'd tried to call his brother, but he did it again. He couldn't seem to help it. Sam didn't answer, of course, and Dean threw his phone at a bed, tracking it with his eyes until it landed with a dull thump. Tracking it.

"Damnit, Dean, you're an idiot."

He started going through the motions to get Sam's GPS turned on, pulling up the website and sauntering over to retrieve his cursed phone. As he picked it up it rang. The doofus picture of Sam with a spoon in his mouth popped onto his screen. Relief, fear and fury washed over him in equal parts.

"Sam, where the fuck are you?" he asked, not waiting to hear Sam's voice greet him. On the other end there was a burst of static and a strangled moan. His heart started racing when he heard Sam cough weakly. Worry beat out every other emotion. "Sam? Sammy, hey, you answer me. Tell me where you are."

The pause was too long, filled with more static and strained breathing. Dean could barely breathe himself. He really did not like that Sam wasn't responding right away.

"_Dean_," Sam said at last, voice barely audible.

That was it. Dean waited for more, but all he got was a loud clatter as Sam's phone fell to the floor, or maybe smashed against a wall. He pressed the phone against his ear, straining to hear what wasn't going to come. But there were still sounds, faint murmurs. He was frozen in place, pinned by whatever was going on and the knowledge he might be listening to his brother dying and no cell phone trace would be done in time. It wasn't until he heard Sam murmur _please, please_ that he was able to move again.

"Sam," he shouted, so desperate to make his brother somehow pick the phone up that he wasn't thinking clearly. He paced in between the beds. "Hey, Sam!"

What he got was an angry hiss, and then the phone cut out completely.

"Damnit."

Dean tapped the phone against his forehead a few times. He allowed himself one second before he raced to the computer and to dial another number – he might still be able to track Sam via GPS. He made up some bullshit excuse about his epileptic brother who wasn't answering his phone, and figured the worry in his voice was pretty believable. It should be. It was no lie.

"_I'm sorry, sir_," the tech support guy said after a few minutes of clacking on a keyboard. "_The phone you need to track down has malfunctioned or was damaged. It's not showing up in our system any longer_."

"What?" The cheeseburger Dean had had for dinner was like a rock in stomach. "What does that mean?"

"_It means the best I can tell you is the last tower the phone connected with is north, near Rathbun. Does that help?_"

"No, not at all," Dean said, flipping his phone shut angrily.

Now the only choice Dean had left was to get to Asha Watkins' grave, dig it up and banish her spirit. While having in the back of his mind the horrible knowledge he didn't even know if Sam was alive or if he was dead.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Because I'm going to be away for a bit this week - chapter seven, a day early. I know. If only I could get out of the technological Dark Ages, I'd have a laptop and there'd be no hold-up in posting. Hehe. Also, I guess this story ended up being nine chapters, pending alpha approval from LdyAnne. Also II, sorry for the gobbledygook for anyone who saw it. Dunno what happened.  
_

**Dark, Yet Lovely **

**Chapter Seven  
**

It was as if he were a guest in his own body. Sam wanted to fight more than anything, but he could not make himself move in anything but weak thrashes. He experienced everything in a thick fog. Half of the time it was all muted into dull sounds and cool touches, but the other half … the other half of the time it was all too sharp and real. He was too confused to know which was worse, fading out or fading in. The darkness couldn't be good, but resurfacing only brought him bewildered horror and cold, cold, it was so cold. Sam blinked, eyelids barely coming back up again.

The fine crack on the ceiling. The smell of blood and saliva thick in the air. The chill of exposed skin in an unheated room. The sound of the succubus' contented moans. The sharp prick of teeth and the unnatural flush of heat that coursed through him, always growing weaker.

In these moments of awareness, Sam became certain almost right away that it would be better to stay trapped in the dark where he didn't have to know what was happening to him. If he didn't know, it wouldn't hurt and he wouldn't have to think about what it would do to Dean. Dean. Thinking of his brother was where he always truly woke up and stayed that way for any length of time. He couldn't leave Dean simply because the darkness was so compelling. It was an easy out and somewhere deep down he knew that. Sometimes he wanted the easy way out. That was partly what had landed him here. Right.

But where was he? What…

"Mmm."

Oh, nononono.

The thing was on top of him again, if she had ever left. He didn't know where she went when he passed out. He was passed out more than not. She hummed softly as she nuzzled his neck. It sounded like a lullaby. Despite the nakedness, what she was doing wasn't really sexual. Sam hazily thought the idea was to strip him until he was as vulnerable as a newborn. No more, no less, except the fact she was sucking on his collarbone might be … unh. Nuh. Sharp. God, no, this couldn't happen. A swell of defiance went through him, too weak to be of much good. He was forever going to be too little, too late.

"Ow," Sam moved, feebly trying to push himself away. His arms were weak, as if muscle had turned to water. His throat was thick and sore with dread. "No, no."

"Shhh," the thing whispered. She abandoned his collarbone, taking his face in her hands and brushing her fingers through his hair. Her movements were almost motherly. Except the scent of his blood was strong on her breath. "It won't be long now. You're so beautiful. So sweet and dark."

The lack of obvious malice from the creature confused Sam. Or maybe it was the blood loss that made him so befuddled. A low drone compromised his hearing, like a bee was buzzing around his head. In his ears. It took him longer than it should have to realize it was the sound of his own voice as he groaned.

"Nonono," he moaned, a string of denial. All he could say or do now.

Sam's eyes rolled up in his head as he struggled to focus. Darkness tempted him as always, pulling him under as always too. He dreamed of Dean, remembered his brother shouting at him on the phone in desperate fear and it snapped him to the awful present again. Where was he? Everything was fuzzier when he tiptoed so close to giving in. No, no. Dean would find him. But he didn't know where was. Dean couldn't find him. It was too late. He had to get away. Phone. He had to call Dean.

He shoved at the creature, god he didn't even know what it was, vampire, succubus? She fell back an inch, but only because she was caught off guard by his resistance. The reprieve was temporary, her weight pinning him far too easily after just a moment.

"Shhh, now. Sleep for a while. Don't fight."

Sam wanted rest more than he wanted to get away or see his brother again. His mind was suddenly filled only with thoughts of sleep and the creature, how she loved him and wanted him to stay with her and be a good, good, good boy. She cooed to him and told him to relax and she wasn't going to hurt him. It was true. It didn't hurt, except an occasional prick to his skin and shudder of cold. She kissed his right temple, almost tenderly. Blackness danced at the edge of his blurry vision. Sam floated back to oblivion, relief and shame following him.

He was under for minutes. For hours. Days. Darkness had no means to measure time. It was an eternity.

Sam didn't know what roused him, only that he came to gasping for breath and flailing without any real strength. His heart raced, working hard to pump what blood he had left in his veins to his limbs. The pieces fell back into place slowly, his brain more sluggish than ever. This wasn't right. The others hadn't died of blood loss. No bite marks. Sam tried to sit, but drooped. A sudden, loud screech split the air like the crack in the ceiling threatened to break it apart.

The woman-creature stood above him, her face beautiful but twisted into an enraged mask. He knew, then, what had ripped him from blessed nothing. Fear pumped through him, made his skin tingle and he knew with rare clarity where he was and what was happening. This was it, it was over for him and Dean, Dean, Dean wasn't there. Instinct that had been buried by this creature's inexplicable thrall or by his promise to Dean came out of him. He raised his hand just barely off the bed and concentrated his scattered thoughts, willing the succubus away from him. Banish it to Hell. To rest. God, he was tired.

For a second, he believed it was actually working. She stayed in one place, glaring at him with none of the contradictory softness she always had before. If Sam would have thought about it, though, if his brain were actually functioning as it should, he would have known he had no chance of winning by using his psychic abilities. She wasn't a demon. All he succeeded in doing was taxing his already broken system. His arm shook and fell. He closed his eyes and waited. It went against everything in him, except everything in him had been carved out and he was left a fraction of himself. Inside, there was almost nothing. It had happened so quickly he hadn't even realized. It had taken forever.

He hoped it would be fast now, no longer an endless game of cat toying with mouse.

But after a moment, still nothing happened. Sam cracked his eyes open, squinting at the succubus. She blinked out, then back in again. He wasn't sure if he was seeing things or if it was real. He shook his head faintly. The creature let out another shrill cry, leaning so close to him he could not help but see the fury in her eyes. He shrank deeper into the mattress, expecting the worst, a meaningless death.

And then she shimmered, blinking out and in and with a piercing shriek, out again. She stayed gone.

Sam stared at the vacant space the creature had occupied, not sure if he could trust his eyes to tell him the truth. He wasn't sure if he'd recognize the truth under normal circumstances, but his head, his head was fuzzy. His life was a lie _before_ he got kidnapped by a blood-sucking succubus vampire thing, after all, filled with all the things he was supposed to do and none of what he wanted. He lay there, breath coming in small pants, watching for the succubus to return. He didn't know how long he stayed that way. He thought maybe he passed out once, confusion heavy. Maybe twice. He felt stronger the longer he stayed still. Good, that was good.

Now. Now he had to get out while he had the chance. Find Dean. Kill that bitch. This one, then Lilith. Phone. He had to get to the phone and get Dean. Or Ruby, Ruby would help him, but he wanted his brother. Sam rolled onto his side and doing so tapped most of his energy. Black spots skittered in across his field of vision, but no creature. It was okay. Okay, okay. He took several shallow gulps of air, shaking with cold and exertion. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet thudded to the floor like cement blocks. He was never going to make it, make it, he had to get out. He sat up, sliding off the bed a millisecond later, his muscles useless.

He lay in a crumpled, naked heap, resting to regain what strength wasn't oozing out of him into the cold wood floor. Sam saw fuzzy blue right in front of his face, his hands reaching for it automatically. Jeans. His? No clothes on. God, he needed to get dressed. Cold. Where was he? What was he doing? Phone. He had to get out. Dean, Dean. He could to this. He pulled the jeans close, the denim rough against his skin, but warm. Warm. Sleep. No, no. He had to pull it together now, to … what was he supposed to do? Think, think. Phone. Dean. Help.

Half-crawling, half-sliding, Sam searched for his cell. It had to be here, he never left home without it. His fingers bumped into it before his eyes registered the black shape on the floor right next to him. He had the phone to his ringing ear before he thought it through. Couldn't think. Had to get away.

"Dean, help," he whispered into it. "It's dark here."

Then he realized the cell was in a hundred pieces and all he had in his numb hand was the faceplate. Sam didn't know how it had happened. He stared at the broken phone in perplexity, finally remembered the creature had taken it from him, smashed it. Severed his ties to Dean. To help. Coming here with her had been a bad decision. No, he hadn't. Not a decision. Too late. He couldn't have helped it. Where was he? Crack on the ceiling. Oh. The thing could come back. He had to get away from her. Find Dean. Dean used to know what to do. Maybe he still did. Sam couldn't think straight.

It took him forever to get his legs into the jeans. His fingers wouldn't work the buttons or the belt. Cold, it was cold. He needed a jacket. Found a lump of soft material. Shirt. He put it on, fading into semi-consciousness once his arms were tucked in flannel. Savoring the warmth, Sam closed his eyes and rested. When he opened them back up, he was wracked with shivers again. The room was darker. It was always darker. Wait, where was he? He should know.

Sam rolled to his side and onto one elbow, trembling there like a strong wind was trying to blow him over. He squinted into the dimness of the room, not recognizing anything. Bed. A nightstand he leaned against for support. A massive shape draped in a light sheet, looking like a child's play of a ghost. Not the motel. He had to pull it together. He got to his hands and knees and began to crawl toward a shadowed rectangle shape on the far wall, hoping it was a door. He didn't know where he was, but he knew he shouldn't have come. Dark, dangerous dark path.

He made it to the door, pressing against it for a minute or twelve. Sam didn't remember why he was so weak. He scratched his collarbone and his fingers came away with blackish flecks on them. Oh. What. He knew only one thing, and that was he needed to go away from here. He crawled down a corridor. House, someone's home. His head smashed into a half-circle table set against a wall, covered in a drape. Not someone's home anymore. He shook his head. Not important. Sam's jeans kept falling down, but he couldn't get his hands to work right to button them.

He moved slowly, vision blurring and graying out in a tunnel. Ice in his veins, so cold. Blind, deaf, dumb. Sam didn't know where he was, but he crawled. He was sure he was going the right way, until suddenly the floor wasn't there anymore and he was falling into a black hole. He tumbled, hitting obstructions all the way. _Stairs_, he thought when he landed at the bottom of them.

Sam couldn't move anymore. He didn't want to. He curled into a protective ball and let unconsciousness take him all the way to the dark. He couldn't even find it in him to care. In fact, he wanted it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Dark, Yet Lovely  
Chapter Eight  
**

The air was icy against his sweat-slicked skin and his lungs burned, but Dean continued at a frenzied pace. He was trying not to keep a mental tally on how long it was taking, refused to think about how long it had taken him just to find Asha Watkins' gravesite in the first place. Part of the problem had been panic. He admitted that, and that panic still coursed through him, making his actions inefficient. He was breaking his back digging into hard earth, and it was slow going in spite of his desperation.

Dean was counting on the _churel_ coming to him when he began with the various banishment rituals, which was why he had to dig and then hit the non-invasive techniques first, in case he needed to move onto the more up close and personal ones quickly. He knew he shouldn't pin all his hopes on it, but if he could draw it to him maybe he could get some answers. Maybe he could find Sam before it was too late. If it wasn't already. He tossed a heavy blade full of dirt out, gasping from the effort. On the next downswing, the shovel finally hit something solid.

Scraping the rest of the soil off the casket hurriedly, he threw the shovel out and clambered up after it. Dean examined his supplies. He went for the iron nails first, pounding them into each corner of the exhumed grave to see what happened. Nothing. Not a hint of anything supernatural. The hope he had that it would be like pricking the _churel's_ spirit with needles, irritating it enough to come focus on him, not Sam, started fading. He didn't slow down, thought. He couldn't. He tossed mustard seeds and more nails into the hole, still gaining no reaction.

"Damnit, why can't this ever be fucking easy?" he muttered and began a standard exorcism.

As he finished, a stiff breeze howled through the cemetery. That could mean the exorcism had worked, but the wind didn't sound inhuman and Dean couldn't be sure. He couldn't take the chance. He wished to hell a salt-and-burn would have been on the list. Instead, he jumped back onto the casket, pulling the lid open awkwardly, sharing space with the still-too-fresh corpse.

"Oh, god." Dean choked back his disgust.

With _Sammy, you stay alive_ in his head, almost the same mantra he'd uttered for thirty endless years in Hell, he picked up some of the strewn nails and pierced the nails on the thumbs and forefingers on both hands of the body. One second he was hunched over Asha Watkins' dead body, and the next he was in the air. He smashed into a headstone, lower back throbbing instantly from the hit. He rolled onto his hands and knees, looking around blindly. He couldn't see anything, but didn't doubt the _churel_ was there with him now. Cautiously, he edged back toward the grave. It had to mean he was on the right track with the banishment techniques.

This time the wail that filled the cemetery wasn't natural, a drawn out _noooooooo_. It might have been in his imagination, his ears ringing, except for the appearance of a dark-haired woman wearing a red sari standing at the foot of the open grave. Dean blinked, and she was right next to him with wild, dark eyes and flaring nostrils. Before he could pull out a weapon – iron blade, iron-loaded revolver, whatever – she launched him in the air again. The back of his head cracked against a headstone this time, and for a second he couldn't see clearly. But then he could and he didn't like it.

"You can't have him back," the _churel_ said, leaning over him with a snarl. "He's mine, hunter."

His head cleared instantly. _Like hell he is, lady_, Dean thought. He pulled out the revolver and got off a lucky shot before she could attack. The very solid ghost disappeared with an angry screech. He didn't have much time. He scrambled for the grave, clumsily grabbing the iron rings he'd laid out. By the time he got himself situated in the casket at the corpse's feet, the _churel_ was back from wherever she'd gone. To Sam, probably. He bound the toes of Asha Watkins' right foot with one of the iron rings. The _churel_ snapped at him, claws literally out and dragging down the side of his neck.

She flashed away though, weaker, like she was almost stuck at the grave. Dean didn't want to think about anything but ending this, getting the _churel_ away from Sam, Sam, _Sammy, you stay alive_. He put a second iron ring around the toes of the body's left foot, bringing the dispossessed spirit to him. It stood in its own place of supposed repose, flickering like a flame about to go out. If he didn't need her to tell him something, he'd have extinguished her already.

"Where is my brother?" Dean asked, voice rough and weak.

"It is too late for him," the _churel_ said with a sneer. "He was beautiful, but not enough. I am still as empty as my home."

Was? It felt like his stomach plummeted to his feet. No, the thing was lying. Dean grabbed the shovel, raising it above the corpse's legs, just above the ankles.

"Tell me where he is right now and I'll let you live to suck another day."

The _churel_ shook her head, sluggish now as it lunged for him.

"Fine." Dean brought the blade of the shovel down on the legs, sickened by the brutal scrape of bone. The legs didn't break, his arms too weak from digging and fighting. "Have it your way."

"Noooooo!" The _churel_ fell to her knees as if in agony, reaching for him in supplication or aggression. "I only wanted my home, my husband, my child."

"I feel for you," Dean said, not meaning it. He knew that once perhaps he could have mustered sympathy for this tainted spirit, but that time was long gone. "Go to Hell."

Using more force than the first attempt, he shattered the corpses' legs. It was the final blow. The _churel_ vanished with a scream and a burst of light and Dean was left there, leaning on the dirt wall of the hole, trying not to puke from the heartache. Sam was out there somewhere right now, and Dean had just eliminated the only way he had to find him. He put his forehead on cold earth, getting his breathing under control. He'd let this happen and he couldn't fix it now. It was too late. Hand shaking, he withdrew his flask and drained it. No amount of alcohol would help anyway.

He stood there for a few minutes, unsure what he was supposed to do. He wracked his brain for any remote idea where Sam could be. The other victims had been all over the place, had wandered away without seeming to know they were dooming themselves. His gut told him Sam was different, a break in pattern. Because of what he was.

He pulled himself from the hole, looking back down at the broken remains. They looked like he felt, a mess of bones and rotting flesh. Nudging the lid of the casket with his foot, Dean jumped slightly as it slammed shut with finality. He had to get home, regroup. He could still find Sam. He _had_ to.

"Home," Dean said aloud, a crazy idea taking root.

It was all he had, and it was a long shot. He left the gaping hole in the ground, taking off for the car at an uneven run. His head and back ached, tension on top of bruises. Dean gunned it, driving too fast for city limits back to the motel. He burst into their room and headed straight for the police files, shuffling through the Watkins folder. Vince Watkins had died in his home, the one his wife's spirit wanted to regain. It would be too easy for it to be true, but he had no other ideas and his brother had to be there and alive. He found the address and was on his phone surfing for directions in less than a minute.

In the quiet of the early morning, the Impala's growl was loud as Dean pulled in front of the empty home. There was a tattered, snow-buried for sale sign in the yard, the house still on the market after nearly two years. His heart raced as he cut the engine and ran up the sidewalk, no real thought for stealth. He tried the front door first, finding it locked. He could kick it open, but decided he didn't need the risk of a neighbor seeing him bust in. The car had probably already woken someone as it was. One side of the house was sheltered by a couple of trees, so he circled around that way in search of a low window to jimmy.

Two minutes later, he stood inside the kitchen. As he moved through it, Dean was surprised the house was still almost fully furnished, old sheets covering the furniture and anything of real value like electronics gone. It wasn't much warmer inside than it was out, and he guessed whoever had control of the property kept the heat on only high enough to prevent frozen pipes or something. If Sam were trapped in here, he'd probably be well on his way to hypothermic by now. If he were still alive.

Dean resisted the urge to yell his brother's name, hastily searching every room he came across, squinting into empty closets, bathrooms, a den. He didn't have a flashlight on him. He'd been too preoccupied with finding Sa…

"Sam," he hissed, rushing forward to the foot of the stairs situated just off the foyer, the body-sized shape there. Oh, god. "Sammy."

Dean fell to his knees beside Sam's crumpled, unmoving frame. Reaching, he carefully turned Sam just enough to get a cold hand to his brother's neck. He tried not to focus on how pale Sam was, how there was no reaction at all. He pressed his fingers against Sam's carotid, seeking a pulse. He couldn't feel anything. Cursing, he withdrew his hand as if it were on fire instead of freezing, shaking it to get his own blood flowing to his swollen, cold fingers. He tried again to find a pulse, at the same time leaning down to gauge Sam's breathing.

Sam _was_ breathing, shallowly, and there was a pulse.

Relief inundated him, and for a second he allowed himself to feel only that. Then Dean took stock of his little brother, frowning at the disarray of clothing, the gray tinge to Sam's skin he could see even in the dim light. The dried blood on his bare chest was nearly black. Growling angrily, Dean inspected Sam for wounds and couldn't find a single one. It didn't make sense, but he didn't have time to figure it out. He pulled Sam's shirt closed and tugged off his jacket, draping it over Sam in a futile attempt to get his brother warm.

"Sam," he said, giving Sam a gentle slap. "Hey, you need to help me out here. Wake up, man, I can't carry your ass."

He got no reaction, not even a groan. He slapped Sam harder.

"Sam, come on."

He needed to get Sam out of here now, and he wasn't sure how he was going to manage it. The front door was right there, but he'd still have to get them both down the sidewalk and into the car. His back was bruised from the cemetery toss, his head throbbed, and his muscles felt like jelly from relief. His gut was filled with rabid butterflies, because deep down he knew Sam wasn't out of the woods, not by a long shot. He shoved aside any doubts he had about his physical ability to handle his brother. If he had to carry the heavy weight on his shoulders, then he would simply do it. There was no choice in the matter. He couldn't let Sam stay in this dark place another minute. It would kill him.

He manhandled Sam's arms through the sleeves of his jacket, not wanting his brother to lose the protective warmth when he picked him up in a fireman's carry. Dean grimaced and secured the top button of Sam's jeans. He took a deep breath and headed for the door, opening it so he'd have one less obstacle to traverse with Sam slung over his shoulder.

As the door opened, a light shone directly in his eyes, followed closely by a, "Don't move, son."

The tone was authoritative and annoyingly familiar. Someone had called the goddamned cops after all. Dean took an involuntary step back, more to protect Sam than himself, raising his hands. He didn't have time for this bullshit.

"Please, you don't understand. My brother," Dean said, finding he did not have to bluff his way into a pleading tone. He thumbed toward Sam, and the bright flashlight bobbed off of him for a second. "Someone took him. I found him here."

"Damn," the still-faceless deputy whispered. "He looks dead."

"He's not dead." Dean glared at the shadowy figure in the door, scuttling to Sam's side and crouching down. "But I can't get him to wake up."

"It's okay, son, I believe you. We can help you." The deputy took a step into the house, no longer in an offensive pose. "Can you tell me what's wrong with him so I can relay it to the dispatcher?"

_He's not Sam anymore_ was the first thought to flash through Dean's head, immediate and wrenching and out of the blue. He stared down at his brother, wondering when the last time was he'd actually had Sam by his side.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," Dean said, and it was a lie he needed to believe.

&-&-&

_A/N: Like I could leave Dean unhurt even if this is a mostly-Sam story. Hehe. Cheers until this weekend!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Dark, Yet Lovely  
Chapter Nine**

Sam knew he wasn't dead because wherever he was it wasn't dark, light painting the inside of his eyelids fiery red. Death was supposed to be dark, wasn't it? He tried to think about that for a moment, but his brain didn't want to cooperate. He didn't remember being dead before, before everything changed. There'd been only nothingness. The horrible suspicion of what had happened came later in sharp, confusing jabs. So if there wasn't nothingness now, then he couldn't be dead. His scattered thoughts refused to collect any further, so he abandoned them and focused on things he might be able to make sense of.

He heard a mishmash of things. A low murmur of voices in the distance, the squeak of rubber against tile, a rapid beat thumping dully as if someone was drumming fingers on a soft surface, running water. The scents of antiseptic and various unpleasant bodily fluids and the tang of pure oxygen hung in the air. It was all déjà vu Sam wished he didn't have experience déjà vuing often enough to realize he was in a hospital.

He was too tired to open his eyes and let the hospital-bright in, not ready for that kind of discomfort yet; he had plenty of that as it was. He felt like he'd run five marathons, achy and feverish and internally out of balance. It was identifiable, like how he used to feel at first when … but, no, it wasn't that. He hadn't seen Ruby in a while. He was certain of that. He'd made a promise, which was turning out to be more difficult to keep than he imagined.

Knowing where he was and how he felt didn't help him with the why. Maybe the haze of unconsciousness had muddled his memory and it would come back to him if he pulled himself all the way out. For now Sam supposed he should be grateful for being there instead of cold and dead. In the dark, cold. And, like that, images were a sudden slideshow in his mind's eye, but he didn't understand any of them. Dark eyes. Red. Blood. Cold. Hands. The ceiling cracked down the middle. Teeth, sharp. A cascade of black hair. He turned his head, as if that would help him escape the memories.

From almost directly above him Sam heard a mechanical hum. Seconds later, warm air began circulating the room. His hair fluttered, tickled, as the air breezed over him. It was comforting and good, but it made him shiver and shy away, gooseflesh breaking over his arms. Someone walked about the room, near the foot of the bed first and up to his left shoulder. There was a rustle of plastic and a clink of metal, a cool hand lingering on his forehead for a moment. He couldn't stay safe in half-sleep anymore. He had to wake up and find out what had happened to him, or what he had done to end up there. He knew it wouldn't be good. Dean wouldn't have brought him…

Dean. If Sam were in a hospital bed, then Dean would be near or maybe in his own bed.

Sam opened his eyes a sliver, the light as painful as he'd expected it to be. His eyes teared and his vision blurred, but he kept them open. A face appeared above him. Not Dean. On some level he knew the woman looming over him must be a doctor or nurse, but the sight of dark eyes and hair send a visceral jolt of fear through him. He blinked, and the eyes were bluish and the hair ashy blonde.

"Hey there," the woman said, a smile lighting her face up. Her teeth didn't look sharp and menacing. "It's good to finally meet you."

He couldn't say the same, nothing but a croak coming out when he tried to speak. Sam swallowed a couple of times, wincing. He couldn't seem to get any moisture in his mouth, the warm air only compounding his frustration.

The woman noticed his distress, turning away from him. The head of the bed was raised slowly. She returned with a cup and straw, offering it to him with practiced ease. Rubbing his shoulder to give comfort or encouragement, she withdrew the water.

"That's better, right?"

He nodded, his head too heavy and lolling a little. The small sip did make him feel more human, but at the back of Sam's throat there was still a tinny taste of dread. Things were different now, but some things were the same. Dean should be there. A bullet of panic shot through him, something he was no longer used to feeling much. He tried to sit up, only to be pushed back down with barely any effort.

The doctor or nurse or whoever she was (not Dean) grasped his left wrist, pressing her fore and middle fingers against it though somewhere a monitor beeped his agitation and heart rate.

"Take it easy, you're okay now," she said.

Sam shook his head in annoyance, finally gaining his voice to ask, "M'brother?"

"Ah." Understanding washed over her face. She released her grip on him and took a step back. "He's fine."

"But where is he?"

"The nursing shift supervisor told him he had to grab a shower and a shave if he wanted to stick around," she said, laughing softly. She winked, still trying to set him at ease. "Said he was getting ripe, starting to lose his appeal and that was bringing down staff morale. He's in the shower right now."

That was the running water sound. Sam relaxed.

"He's okay?"

"He came in with a knock on the head and some deep bruising on his back, but he's fine. He refused care for himself, but he must care about you a lot. I don't think he's slept a wink in days. I thought I was going to have to admit him."

Knock on the head? Bruising? Days? Her answers were only creating more questions for Sam. His head swirled, and if anything he was more off balance now than he had been before. He closed his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You probably have no idea what's going on," she said. "I'm Doctor Helgeson. I was going to perform some routine checks anyway, so why don't you relax for a bit while I do that? We can discuss details later. You've been quite ill, Mr. Nelson."

Nelson? Sam submitted to her ministrations, too tired to do anything else. The fear-laced adrenaline leaked out of him, leaving him shaky and weak again. He drifted close to sleep as the doctor quietly went about her exam, taking some reassurance in the knowledge that whatever had happened, it had happened mostly to him. The doctor's hands brushed against his right collarbone.

He didn't remember moving, but suddenly Sam was sitting and he had his hands wrapped tightly around Doctor Helgeson's biceps. Her mouth was a round O of surprise, which quickly turned to a grimace of pain. He let go quickly.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay," Helgeson said, giving him a nervous smile. She reached up her left hand to massage her right bicep. "You've got some unusual bruising near your clavicle. The touch must have triggered you."

"Yeah." Sam was hoarse, his mouth dry again. "Apparently."

The doctor began to speak, but before she uttered a word the bathroom door opened. She stepped to the side, glancing that distraction. Dean stood there with damp hair and a flannel shirt halfway pulled on.

"Sam," Dean said as he shoved his arm the rest of the way into the sleeve. In three steps, he was at the bed. "You're awake."

A part of Sam wanted to tell Dean that Captain Obvious was obvious, but the look on his brother's face, relief and worry and exhaustion, ripped the smartass remark off the tip of his tongue. He knew it had been bad, just remembering fragments had left him with a terrible feeling. Seeing Dean looking like that told him all he really needed to know. Probably all he wanted to know, too.

"Ah," the doctor said, edging to the door. "He is. Sam, you seem to be doing just fine. Clearly, your body needed to recuperate. I'll check back in on you later."

Sam barely paid attention to her, his eyes on Dean. Freshly showered or not, Dean looked terrible. Hot water and soap couldn't wash away dark circles under the eyes. The truth was, though, more often than not these days Dean always looked like that. Now Sam had to wonder how much of that was Hell and how much was something else. Worry about him. A face clear of stubble only made Dean look as lost as Sam felt. It also made several deep scratches on his brother's neck more visible. He looked at them and back to Dean's face again.

"They're nothing. The thing didn't want to go gently, like they never do," Dean said, ending that thread of conversation before it could even begin. "How're you feeling?"

"Tired. Confused. A little hungry." Sam smiled, then gave Dean a quizzical look. "Dean, what happened?"

"What do you remember?"

Bleeding. Dying. Darkness he couldn't escape. Darkness that was so seductive he didn't want to escape.

"Not much," Sam said quietly. "The past week or so has been kind of a blur. I think we were at a restaurant, and then all I get is flashes. Sensations."

Dean studied him for a moment, worry morphing into something Sam couldn't decipher. It passed before he could get a handle, like things with Dean always did. Sam always saw just enough below the surface to know something was wrong. Even when Dean had finally explained about Hell, Sam could never really understand it, not in a way that meant he could help his brother bear the weight. Going along for the ride like he was doing wasn't a fix for either of them, and he wanted to fix it so Dean could be a little happy again. As it was, Sam felt like a prop, waiting to be used in whatever Dean was struggling through. It wasn't fair to think like that, especially now when he apparently had put that haunted expression on his brother's face himself.

"Short version: turned out to be a _churel_ – a spirit of a woman who died in childbirth," Dean said. He sat down, practically wilting into the uncomfortable bedside chair. He appeared old, worn out. "It was the ghost of the first victim's wife. I think it got to you on the first night in town. By the time I figured it out, she already had you. And by the time I got to you, you were almost dead from shock and blood loss."

"Blood loss?" Sam peered down, weakly felt for injuries. He found none. He knew where one was supposed to be. He touched his collarbone.

"Yeah, no one could figure that one out. It took a lot to convince the doctors why you were in shock and transfuse you." Dean rubbed a hand down his face, looking like he was reliving the experience. "The _churel_ must have had some way to heal the wounds so no one noticed something was going on."

For once it didn't take much to read Dean like a book, but Sam knew his brother shouldn't blame himself for how this ended. It was true that she had gotten to him that first night. Dean couldn't have known, though, that it wasn't so simple as mind control or some supernatural power. Sam didn't think he had been completely without choice. A niggle of guilt and he-didn't-know-what wormed around in his belly. He would never deny that the _churel_ had some kind of hold on him. But he had an abrupt, intense memory of wanting to follow her. He remembered seeing and recognizing the _churel_ in the restaurant. On a deep level, somewhere mostly hidden even from himself, he wondered if he had truly wanted it.

"Dean, you couldn't have known," he said. "I didn't completely know."

"Completely." Dean straightened, fatigue and self-blame fading. In their place, confusion. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Sam was terrified to explain, because Dean never understood him the way he never understood Dean anymore. Dean only ever reacted the same way. But maybe this time Dean would do something more. Maybe this time Dean would take a stand and do something. On a deep level, somewhere mostly hidden even from himself, he wondered if he wanted Dean to take action for him. God, he didn't know what he was even talking about.

"Sam?"

"I dunno, Dean," Sam said, glancing at his brother, clinging to hope. "I think part of me knew what was going on. Part of it was the _churel_, but part of it was _me_, too. Part of me wanted it."

Dean stood then, pushing the chair back with a loud, startling screech. He stared at Sam, lips a tight line of anger and more. Fear. Denial. Awareness they weren't just talking about what had gone down here in Centerville anymore, somehow.

"No, Sam," Dean said. "I don't buy that. You only think that because you're tired and sick, and because that thing had some sort of power over you. That's what it _does_. It's in all the lore. Once it had you, you didn't have any choice."

"Dean," Sam said. "I'm not sure that's true."

In the way Dean looked at him, dismayed, Sam knew that deep down his brother understood what he was trying to say, had understood all along and didn't want to. The darkness was a part of Sam, and it was as lovely as it was cruel. It might be the only way to keep him and Dean and Bobby and everyone in the whole damn world from living a miserable existence. And part of Sam wanted to use it.

The muscles in Dean's jaw ticked, and he seemed to refuse to look at Sam or say anything else. Sam regretted making the admission, but he couldn't take it back now. It was out there, almost a solid, third entity in the room. He watched Dean pace a bit more, then sink back into the chair.

"So now that you're awake again, we can get out of this godforsaken state," Dean said at last, speaking as if they hadn't just danced around _that_ conversation again. "I might have a couple of leads."

Misery loved company, so Sam would go. He'd keep playing the avoidance game, because as much as he was starting to think he had no choice about using his powers to end it all, he also wanted to stay with his brother until he simply couldn't anymore.

"Yeah," Sam said. "Just point me to my clothes and we can go before the doc comes back for details we can't give her."

* * *

_A/N: Thank you all for your kind words throughout the posting of this story. And thanks again to LdyAnne for the encouragement and support. Your bribe is in the mail, dear. ;) _

_Contrary to how it seems, I don't **like **to end on a depressing note with every fic. Truly. I'm starting to bring myself down, so I think next time I'm going to have to go back in time or write the crackiest crack I can. ;)_


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